


Chasing Tails

by rabidchild67



Category: White Collar
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Dogs, Case Fic, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-29
Updated: 2014-04-29
Packaged: 2018-01-21 06:19:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1540790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rabidchild67/pseuds/rabidchild67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Meet Neal Caffrey: convicted bond forger, suspected art thief, con artist. And dog whisperer. This is a canon divergent retelling of the Pilot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chasing Tails

**Author's Note:**

> This is my White Collar Reverse Bang story for Love_82.

Getting all he would need was nothing – it wasn’t like he didn't have allies here, friends that would help. No, the hard part was the waiting.

Waiting for his hair and beard to grow out, waiting to accumulate – and hide – the things he would need when he finally made the escape attempt. 

Acquiring the guard uniform was surprisingly easy – it was the plastic bag to hide it in that took him more than a week to secure. A week spent on the edge of his seat – literally – jumpy with the knowledge the thing was hidden under his mattress and could be discovered at any moment in a random search. The boots were a little harder, and were two sizes too big; he risked tripping over them but he couldn’t practice in them lest he be caught. The prison-issue slip-ons were hardly the same, but at least he could borrow a larger pair from Grubby down the cellblock for the low, low price of a dozen Kit Kat bars. 

At last the day came, six weeks in the making. He’d pulled custodial duty a month ago, so slipping into the guards’ men’s room had been easy. This time of the afternoon, he knew the place would be empty – after lunch but before their break at 3:00.

 _Ah, fuck!_ he thought to himself, and winced as the razor he used snagged and dragged across his beard. He’d trimmed most of it back, though apparently not enough, and the blade was duller than it ought to have been. The nick bled immediately, nearly dripping down his chin, but he caught it soon enough. He pressed on it with a bit of toilet paper until is stopped.

Next, he pulled the uniform from the toilet tank and breathed a sigh of relief that the plastic bag had remained waterproof. He changed into it quickly, then neatly folded and packed his orange jumpsuit into the same bag and immersed it back into the tank. There was no sense in leaving it out to be noticed before his absence was noted.

Before replacing the lid to the toilet tank, he dipped his hands into the frigid water to wet his hair down. Pulling on the boots that had been hidden behind the air intake for the HVAC system, he regarded himself in the mirror with a critical eye. 

_Stop looking so cocky,_ he told his reflection silently, and scowled back at himself, grinding his teeth. That was better. With a quick glance back at the bathroom to be sure he hadn’t left any sign of having been there, Neal slid out of the room and headed for freedom.

The walk across the machine shop put his heart in his throat – at least half a dozen of his fellow inmates recognized him, though none would risk saying a thing. He’d timed this perfectly – coinciding with the afternoon parade of inmates being taken to and from the yard. He kept his head down and his scowl firmly in place as he moved past them; they instinctively gave way as soon as they caught sight of the navy blue uniform. 

He was almost there – almost home free. He pulled the ID badge from his pocket and slipped it through the access point. There was an agonizing second, and another, when he feared the light would not turn from red to green, but he breathed a sigh of relief when it did. Which was why he barely made a reaction when the door was suddenly jolted from the other side as he passed through. Luckily, that seemed to be what was needed, as a guard he did not recognize held the door fast, looked Neal in the eyes and then smiled as he held the door open for him. 

Neal sailed past him and into the parking lot beyond, nearly dizzy with relief.

 _You, Neal Caffrey, are a free man,_ he thought as he found an unlocked truck he could easily hotwire. As the engine fired up and he caught sight of himself in the rearview, he saw a man almost too caught up in his own audaciousness. He tamped that right down – he had something to do, someone he needed to see.

As the strains of Sam and Dave’s seminal hit filled the cab of the truck, Neal felt the meaning of the words of the song more keenly than in that second. “Hold on, baby,” he breathed, daring to speak aloud for the first time in over an hour. “I’m comin’.”

\----

The bright autumn sky was almost too dazzling not to spend a moment in admiration – a good day to fly, Neal thought. But he had a plan here, and he grinned as he spotted his mark driving up in a late model Bentley. The old man’s fur-clad mistress regarded Neal with an appreciative smile. Neal grinned back at her as he accepted the tip from her sugar daddy; he didn't look at how much it was until he pulled out of the airport: a hundred dollar bill. He adjusted the mirrors and shivered, taking it as a good omen.

The drive into Manhattan was uneventful, and he steadfastly refused to look twice at any police squad car he passed. He had a destination in mind and he would not be delayed. He pulled up outside the familiar building on Canal, abandoning the Bentley with the keys still in it – in this neighborhood, it would be gone within the hour. He ducked into the Thai restaurant, head down; he removed the bright yellow windbreaker he’d bought for three bucks from a street vendor in Jamaica and deposited it in the trash bin in the kitchen as he went through. Bright flames flared under the woks on the one side, waiters scurrying here and there to meet the demands of the dinner rush and Neal went completely unnoticed as he made his way to the back. 

He and Kate had specifically chosen this building due to its numerous escape routes – not only was there a main set of stairs and a fire escape, there were the back stairs as well, the door to which was well hidden. Neal crept up the four stories to his old apartment, his heart in his throat and his mind a complete blank because he didn't have a clue what he’d say when he saw her. 

He couldn’t have explained why, but he knew the apartment was empty before he got the door open.

\----

Neal heard the cops pull up outside, but, at the same time, it barely registered. He sat alone, leaning against the column in the center of the dingy studio, fondling the leather collar in his right hand. He was tracing the letters pressed into it with a light touch when he heard the footsteps behind him. The fact it was only one person that was approaching was of mild interest; when the man spoke, Neal was more than mildly interested.

“I see Kate moved out,” Agent Peter Burke said, his no-nonsense, upstate drawl unmistakable to Neal.

Neal sighed, clutching the dog collar in his hand reflexively. He remembered so fondly the day he went into the custom shop and picked it out – the leather a rich oxblood, hand-tooled and supple. He remembered how her eyes had lit up when he’d presented it to her, how proud she was when he’d explained what the letters read. But she was gone now.

“It’s been a while,” Peter said.

“Yeah, a few years, give or take,” Neal replied, not turning around to look at him. Peter had literally been the last person he expected to come after him, but given their history, it made a perverse kind of sense.

“You carrying?”

Neal was insulted. “You know I don’t like guns.”

Burke walked around the edge of the room, and Neal glanced up at him sidelong when he came into view. He held his gun pointed in Neal’s general direction, but pointed at the floor. “They asked me, what makes a guy like you pull a boneheaded escape with three months to go?”

“Guess you figured it out,” Neal replied bitterly.

“Kate says adios to you in prison and gets busy with her disappearing act. The trail ends here. But you already know that.”

Oh, he knew so much more – way more than Burke had ever or would ever guess. “Missed them by two days.”

Burke didn't catch the plural. “Still. Only took you a month and a half to escape a supermax. Damned impressive.”

 _Supermax._ The sting of that sentence still hadn’t subsided for Neal, nor had the blame he held against Burke for his testimony during Neal’s sentencing. First conviction, for bond forgery, and he got sent to supermax? His laugh came out more bitter than he intended.

Burke’s radio crackled, something unintelligible, and he lifted it to his lips. “Subject identified and unarmed.”

_”Roger that.”_

“We’re surrounded?” Neal asked. Burke nodded. “How many?”

“Including my agents and the Marshals? All of them, I think,” Burke said soberly.

This, at least, impressed Neal. He let his hand drop to the floor, fingers going lax around the dog’s collar.

“What’s that for? Didn't have you two pegged for the kinky types.”

“Didn't have you pegged for a lack of imagination,” Neal retorted. 

“They’re gonna give you four more years for this, you know?”

Neal flinched, the information like a physical blow, but he had to do it, he had to save her, didn't he? He had an obligation, she belonged to him, and trusted him to keep her safe. The moment Kate could no longer be trusted – 

He pushed himself to his feet, putting those thoughts out of his mind and leaving the collar on the floor. When he looked at Burke, it was like he was really seeing him. “That’s the same suit you were wearing the last time you arrested me,” he said.

Burke regarded the ill-fitting bulk of cheap gabardine with a shrug. “Classics never go out of style.”

This got a laugh out of Neal, but when Burke moved, something on his shoulder caught the light – and Neal’s eye. He approached the FBI agent with caution, raising his hands in as non-threatening a way as he could. The thing he plucked from the man’s suit was little more than a fiber, mud-brown, about three inches long. With a sudden wave of insight, Neal recognized it for what it was – both literally and as an instrument of his own hope, which stirred like a flame in his chest.

“You know what this is?” Neal asked, holding it in up.

Burke laughed. “No idea. I got it from a case I was supposed to be working on before they yanked me off to find your ass.”

Neal heard the unmistakable sounds of other law enforcement types coming up the front stairs, their proximity and imminent arrival fueling a desperation he was loath to show. He licked his lips. “You think you’ll catch him?”

“Dunno. He’s good – maybe as good as you.”

“What’s it worth if I tell you what this is? Is it worth a meeting?”

“What are you talking about?”

The men were getting closer; Neal knew without looking they were armed and approaching him with caution, even if, with his simple cotton slacks and t-shirt, he hardly posed a threat to anyone. “If I tell you what this is, right now, will you agree to meet me back in prison in one week?”

Burke seemed to be giving it serious thought. 

“Just a meeting,” Neal cajoled, but Burke didn't look like he was biting, so Neal had to go for it. “It's a security fiber for the new Canadian hundred dollar bill.” He raised his hands as the agents entered the apartment.

Burke’s eyes went round as he absorbed the significance of what Neal had just told him. Neal offered no resistance as the agents took his hands and cuffed them behind his back. “One week,” he said to Burke as they hauled him away. He could no longer see Burke’s face, but Neal would bet everything he was that he’d see the man in a week’s time.

\----

“How did you know?”

Neal sat at the metal picnic table in the visitation room at the prison in as nonchalantly a position as his shackles would allow. His satisfaction that Burke had come to see him – in five days, no less – was very short-lived. The fish was only nibbling at the bait, it hadn’t struck yet.

“Come on, Peter, it’s what I do.” Burke’s own nonchalance was forced, not a good look for him as he tried to slouch lazily against the window. “How upset were the Canadians?”

“Very. Well, as upset as Canadians can get. So. I agreed to a meeting. We’re meeting.” 

He seemed impatient, so Neal didn't beat around any bushes. “I know why you call him the Dutchman.” Burke looked impressed, and Neal allowed himself a small and satisfied smile. “Like the ghost ship – he disappears whenever you get close.”

“How do you know anything about him?”

“You know my life, you think I don’t know yours? Did you get the birthday cards?”

Burke smirked. “They were a nice touch.”

“You’ve been after the Dutchman almost as long as you were after me. I'll help you catch him.”

“Really? Really, how does that work? You wanna be prison pen pals?”

Neal pushed the folder he’d brought to the meeting across the table and Burke sat down, eyeing it; the fish was almost biting. “You can get me out of here. There's case law, precedent. I can be released into your custody –“

“Nice. This is very nice. But you're right, I do know you, and I know the second you're out, you'll take off after Kate.”

 _Not Kate,_ Neal thought, but didn't correct him. “Peter, I am not gonna run.” He slid a piece of paper out of the folder, a printed flyer from the Internet. “The new ones are tamper proof, never been skipped on.”

Burke’s eyes go steely and Neal watches the fish swim away from him. “Who’s Farah?”

Neal was unprepared for the question. He backed away, back straightening and posture rigid.

“It’s the name from the dog collar – Kate have a dog now or something?”

Neal breathed out through his nose, closed his eyes and felt a stab of despair. _Hardly._ “Something.”

Burke got to his feet, motioned for the guard to let him out of there.

“Will you consider a work release deal?” Neal said, even though he knew what the answer would be.

“Sorry, Neal,” he replied, though he did look somewhat regretful. “Nice try, though.”

\----

Neal lay on the bunk of his now completely empty cell, staring at the ceiling and trying desperately to keep the bitter memory of his failure at bay. He was positive he could convince Burke to take the deal, thought the man would never resist the opportunity to use Neal's expertise to solve a case he’d pursued for this long. He’d seen the frustration in Burke’s eyes when Neal referred to the Dutchman, could read between the lines. The case had already taken years of his life and he didn’t even have a name for the man yet. Neal had watched that frustration unfold when Burke had been after “James Bonds” as well, though Neal was foolish enough to have approached him at the time, had given up his own identity too early. This Dutchman was apparently more prudent than Neal had been in his younger days. But not prudent enough to escape Neal's notice – and he wouldn’t remain anonymous for long once Neal was on his trail, this much was certain.

He heard a sound outside his cell. “Lights out, Neal, gotta turn that off,” came a familiar, rumbly voice. 

Neal sat up and swung his feet to the floor, leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Could I get one more minute, Bobby?” he asked, looking into the kind eyes of one of his jailers.

Bobby cocked his black head to the side, the dim light from Neal's 40-watt bulb glinting off of the lustrous fur. “OK, one more minute.”

Neal reached his hand through the bars palm up and the damp, heavy muzzle rested there a moment. “Is it midnight yet?” Neal asked, scratching the Rottweiler along his jaw and then back towards his ear, rubbing and kneading.

“Yeah, it’s midnight,” Bobby said, then growled so deep in his chest it sounded like a purr. Bobby pushed his head heavily against Neal's hand, and Neal kept rubbing, working his knuckle into the flesh beside his ear – his patented “ear job” as Farah always referred to it. When he stopped, Bobby gave a grumble of protest, but they both knew he had to be moving along to complete his rounds, he the self-appointed advance man of the corrections officers.

Bobby shook his head, ears and jowls flapping, and Neal smiled. “See you tomorrow, Neal?”

“Where would I go?” Neal replied with more bitterness than he really wanted to show to his friend. Bobby gave him a quick lick along his wrist and then went on his way.

Neal settled back on his bunk and stared at the display of neatly-drawn tick marks on the opposite wall. After midnight – time to add another day to his countdown calendar. He reached for the grease pencil that lay on his narrow table – the only things the guards had left behind after they’d tossed his cell a week ago and taken everything away but his clothes and a bar of soap, payback for his failed escape attempt. 

As he made another mark on the wall, the spread of the days that had passed before this one laid out before him almost mocked him. _Four years_ they seemed to be saying, _you’ve been counting down for four years, and now where are you? Three months to go and you muck it up like this? Do you really think she can wait while you serve another sentence? Do you really think she has four years left?_

All at once, the rage and frustration Neal had been feeling overtook him, and he began to scribble wildly over the wall of tick marks, his arms flailing as he sought to obliterate them all. He didn’t notice that he’d shattered his light bulb until the light was suddenly gone, and he stopped, breath ragged in his ears. He grabbed the thin pile of rags that passed for a pillow in this place and screamed his grief and guilt and self-loathing into it for a full minute before collapsing, nearly spent, on his bunk.

_Four more years._

The tick marks were right: Farah, his friend, his companion of so many years barely had that many left. He recalled her intelligent brown eyes, now surrounded by a dusting of white amidst the black fur in the last photo Kate had brought him (“Don’t I look dignified?” he imagined her saying). But the photo was gone now, along with the rest of his belongings, and he had nothing of her, nothing to show for his efforts. Kate had pushed his one remaining button, he’d gone for it, and here he was, trapped and frustrated. 

_And he had four more years._

He couldn't say what made him get up and make another mark, start another set on a clear space of wall, only that he had to or he'd go insane.

 

**THREE MONTHS LATER**

The _tick-tick-tick_ of dog claws on the concrete floor was an unusual one at this time of day. 

“Stop yowlin’ ya mangy mutt,” came the whiny complaint of one of Neal's cellblock neighbors, but Neal could understand Bobby perfectly well. 

“Neal, Neal, Neal, Neal, Neal,” the Rotty kept saying, obviously excited about something, and in a good way.

“Caffrey, you’re wanted by the warden,” Wendt said in a bored tone.

“What for?” Neal said, though he wasn’t looking at the guard.

“What do I know what for? Assume the position, ya maggot.” Wendt, a jar-head wannabe with bad knees and chronic halitosis, fancied himself a drill sergeant.

Neal barely registered the man’s presence as he stood, turned to face the wall with his feet planted apart and his hands on the cinder blocks. He chanced a look at Bobby under his arm as Wendt opened the cell door.

“It’s good. I think it’s good,” Bobby said in his low rumble; to anyone else, including Wendt, it sounded like a growl.

“Easy boy,” Wendt said to the dog without really addressing him.

“The FBI agent came back. He was here this morning,” Bobby added before sitting down and keeping a watchful eye on Wendt as he cuffed Neal and led him out of the cell.

Neal allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction.

\----

Haskell was his typical erudite self when Neal met with him in the guard supervisor’s office. “I don’t know what kind of fucking shit you pulled, dickface, but the FBI wants your narrow ass down in the City.”

“Oh?”

“Fuck if I know why, shithead,” Haskell replied, answering the question Neal hadn’t voiced. “He said all you need to know’s in this fuckin’ thing.” 

The warden pushed a blue file folder across the desk in Neal's direction. Neal noticed it had a Federal Bureau of Investigation logo printed on the front. He leaned forward and extended his hands as far as they’d go given the limited range of motion the manacles offered. He pulled the folder toward him with his fingertips to the edge of the desk, then picked it up. Inside was a contract, the top of which read, “Temporary Custodial Work Release.”

“Read it, don’t read it,” Haskell went on, apparently having a conversation that Neal wasn’t participating in. “If it gets your fucking ass outta my prison for even a week, I’m down with it, ya little shit.”

\----

Neal shivered as he crossed the courtyard of the prison towards the outer gate that led to the visitor parking lot, and only part of the reason for it was the late October chill. The deep depression he’d been in the last three months was now all but forgotten; three months of no news from Kate, of worrying about his pup, his Farah, were now over. 

Beyond that gate was his chance to get Farah back, and nothing would bring him down.

“Let me see it,” Burke ordered with a scowl. He stood leaning against his car, arms crossed. 

Neal squinted against the bright sun and hitched up the leg of his pants. The tracking anklet he’d been fitted with was heavier than Neal had thought it would be, but he thought he could deal. 

“You understand how this works?” Burke asked.

“I’m being released into the custody of the FBI, under your supervision, with this thing chafing my leg.” Neal gave his foot a little turn, like Dorothy showing off the ruby slippers, amusing himself. “Am I missing anything?”

“Yeah, if you run and I catch you – which you know I will, because I’m two-and-oh – you’re not back here for four years, you’re back for good.”

Neal thought that a little harsh, but he was slightly beyond caring at the moment. 

“You’re going to be tempted to look for Kate,” Burke went on, clearly in full-on lecture mode. “Don’t.” Neal nodded his understanding. “This is a temporary situation, Caffrey, but if you help me catch the Dutchman, we can make it permanent.” 

Burke held the passenger side door of the FBI-issued Oldsmobuick open for Neal; the car was so boring he felt the need for a nap immediately. “Where we headed?”

“Your new home.”

\----

There was nothing home-like about the place Burke took him.

Cunningly named “Hotel” according to the sign out front, the place reminded him of the horror show that Tom Hanks’ character in the movie “Big” found to live in upon discovering his 13-year old self in the body of a full grown man. The “lobby” was tiny, with a small counter at one end behind which the hotel’s manager sat, perched atop an old wooden stool with, of all things, a ping pong paddle clutched in his hand. The reason for the paddle soon became evident, when the man hauled back and slammed it down, trying to slay a fat cockroach that had been scurrying across the counter. Neal pulled his hand, which had been resting there, back with distaste. 

“This is Neal Caffrey, my office called earlier?” Burke said to the manager.

He nodded his understanding and pulled something from a cubby hole behind him. “There you go, Snake Eyes,” he said, handing Neal a keychain with the number “11” painted on it in red nail polish.

 _Snake Eyes?_ Neal supposed it was the man’s commentary on the color of his eyes, but it was a new one on him just the same. He glanced over at Burke, who was clearly enjoying this, and motioned with his head.

“Can I talk to you?” Burke got closer and Neal leaned forward to whisper, “Do I have to stay here?”

Burke rolled his eyes and said in a loud voice (so much for subtlety, Neal thought), “Oh, cowboy up. Lookit, it costs 700 a month to house you on the inside, so that's what it costs here. For the money, this is as good as it gets in Manhattan. You find something better, you take it.”

“Well, what about clothes? I’m wearing my entire wardrobe.”

“You like thrift stores – there’s one at the end of the block.”

“But –“

“Don’t start – no protests,” Burke kept going, his voice getting louder. There was no question but that he was enjoying this. “This is what you wanted.” 

A movement at the end of the lobby’s counter got his attention. Standing there was a wreckage of a woman Neal hadn’t noticed before. She was so drug-addled Neal wished he could find her help. She smiled through rotting teeth. “Heeey,” she drawled at him, drawing a talon-like acrylic nail along her cleavage.

“See – look at her, you don’t get that in prison, do you?”

Neal gaped at him.

“Listen, your tracking anklet is set up so you can go anywhere within two miles of this place. Here's your homework.” He held up a stack of file folders, held together by thick rubber bands, and held his hand up, showing two fingers. “Remember, two miles.” He shoved the folders into Neal’s chest, then turned to go. “I'll see you here at 7 AM.”

Neal watched him go with his mouth hanging open. He jumped when the manager went after another roach, this time with apparent success, because he crowed in triumph. 

This was going to be a long night.

\----

Neal stood in the thrift store Burke had so helpfully pointed out to him. He’d left prison with a $60 voucher, and thought he could at least find some underwear and maybe a real shirt to wear, though as he made his way through a rack of plus-sized Hawaiian shirts, he wasn’t so sure.

His attention was caught by a strikingly attractive elderly woman sweeping in through the front door. She was probably in her mid-60’s, of average height, and dressed to the nines in a beautiful designer coat and long gloves that reached to her elbows. Despite her age, her cocoa-colored skin was smooth and clear, her brown eyes sparkling with a hint of inner mirth. In her one hand she held a garment bag, and in the other a leash for a tiny pug that pranced in ahead of her. The dog looked around once and rolled his eyes. “I love the smell of desperation in the morning,” he observed in a flat, Brooklyn accent.

Neal raised his eyebrows, not sure if he ought to agree or be insulted. He chose instead to ignore the dog and moved on to another rack.

“Hello, I’ve come to donate these,” the well-dressed woman was saying to the clerk. She removed her gloves and unzipped the garment bag, pulling out the clothes that were within.

“Old suits?” the clerk said, catching Neal’s interest. 

“Excellent observation, Captain Obvious,” the pug quipped.

Neal just barely contained a giggle, and instead walked forward to investigate. “Those are fantastic,” he said, stepping in close to get a better look.

“Hey, back off pal!” the pug practically shouted, hopping from foot to foot.

Neal backed down, more to avoid stepping on the little guy than out of any kind of concern.

“Bugsy!” the woman admonished, correcting him with a brief tug on the leash. The pug calmed down, but kept muttering under his breath. 

“You like them?” the woman went on, smiling at Neal. “They belonged to my late husband, Byron. He really had great taste in clothes.”

“He had better taste in liquor, if you know what I mean,” the pug added sourly.

“Hey, that’s not nice!” he hissed at the dog, who looked up at Neal sharply, his bug eyes protruding just a little bit more.

“Did you understand me?” the dog asked.

Neal ignored him, returning his attention to the dog’s mistress. “I mean, they look so nice,” he said, indicating the suit she still held. He took the jacket from her, peeked at the label, and was barely able to contain his reaction to what he was seeing. “This is a Devore!”

“Buddy, I’m talkin’ to ya!” the dog said, and began pawing at Neal’s shoe. Neal moved him off as subtly as he could.

“Bugsy!” the woman admonished in a tone that meant business, and the dog subsided, sitting down but still grumbling. “He won it from Sy himself.”

“Won it?” 

“He beat him at a back door draw,” she said, grinning.

“Your husband played poker with Sy Devore?”

“He certainly did. And so did I.”

Neal didn't have to fake the grin on his face, or his awe at the story. “No!”

“Yes. The guys would even let me sit in once in a while on a hand. And I was good.” 

Neal laughed, then caught sight of a beautiful grey felt trilby, in as mint condition as the suit. He flipped it over with well-practiced ease and deposited it on his head. It fit like a dream.

“I’m glad to see someone who appreciates these,” the woman said fondly, “I was hoping someone would. I’ve got a whole closet full of them.”

“A whole closet?” Neal couldn’t believe his luck.

“Mm-hmm. Well, actually, it’s a guest room, but I haven't used it for anything but storage for years.”

Neal finally pulled the jacket on. It was a little large, but not terribly so, and at least the arms were long enough.

The woman brushed her hands down his shoulders and then the sleeves, eyeing him critically. “Oh, Byron used to wear that one whenever we went dancing. The neighborhood was... let's say it was much nicer than.”

“You live nearby?

“Not far.”

“Mind if I come and have a look at the other stuff? I’m in the market for a new wardrobe.”

“I’m just sure you are,” said a sarcastic voice at his feet, and Neal chanced a glance down at the dog. 

“I promise I couldn’t hurt a fly,” Neal said sincerely to the woman, though his remarks were addressed to the dog.

“Of course not, dear. I’m June Ellington, by the way.” She held her hand out.

Neal took it and gave her a very genuine smile. “Neal Caffrey, at your service.”

Neal did a double take when he saw the car parked at the curb – it was nearly the same model as the one he’d stolen from JFK on his escape attempt, though this one was a sedan, and June had a chauffeur. 

Neal insisted on carrying the suits for June and, after placing them in the trunk, went to get into the back seat… only to find the pug seated there instead, hairs bristling on the back of his neck. 

“I’m not letting you in this car until you explain how you can understand me,” Bugsy said.

“Can we do this later?” Neal replied.

June, naturally unaware of the conversation taking place around her, laughed at Neal’s reaction to her dog’s apparently vicious reaction. “He’s like that with everyone, Neal, but his bark is much worse than his bite, I assure you.” She lifted the dog up and placed him on her lap. 

Bugsy’s eyes didn’t leave Neal the entire trip, which was thankfully within Neal’s two mile radius, if only just. He kept him in his sights once they got inside, and June talked Neal into having a cup of tea with her before showing him the rest of her husband’s wardrobe. She left Neal in the parlor while she made it, leaving Neal and Bugsy staring at each other from across the room.

Neal slipped from the divan onto the floor as a sign of respect, but kept his back straight and his head up as Bugsy came over to him. As he spoke, he was careful not to look the dog in the eyes – not yet. “I know that you want to protect your mistress, but you have no reason to be concerned about me. I know it is strange to you that I can understand you, but like the sun in the sky and the biting of fleas, it is as it has always been.”

Bugsy made a small snort and sat down. Neal looked down to find him staring back, his head cocked to the side. “You don’t have to be so formal with me, kid,” Bugsy said, though it was clear that the effort Neal had made to do so had gone a long way. Speaking with dogs, like with people, had many layers of meaning, something that Neal had learned over the course of his life. Bugsy reached a paw out to Neal’s thigh. “It’s a little freaky.”

“You don’t know the half of it.”

Neal had always been able to communicate with dogs – for as long as he could remember. As far as he knew, neither of his parents or anyone else in his family had this ability, though his great-grandmother had been a great dog trainer with a Vaudeville act, or so he’d been told. He often wondered if he had inherited it from her.

The ability manifested when he was very young. He recalled his mother laughing about “imaginary friends” and indulging him in his “fantasy play” when he was small. But when he was ten and eleven and still apparently believed he could talk to dogs, things had gotten weird. His mother consulted the school counselor, who’d recommended a psychiatrist to get to the root of his “issues.” The shrink had immediately assumed Neal’s issues stemmed from his absent father, and Neal, with his well-above average intelligence, had fortunately decided to play along. It was a rude awakening for him, and upsetting, to have to suppress something he could not help about himself, but he learned to adapt. 

It was his first step on a surprisingly short road to becoming an accomplished conman.

He’d always felt like an outsider as a result – a fact either exacerbated or alleviated (take your pick) by the fact he spent much of his days hanging with a pack of neighborhood dogs. He’d learned much about friendship and loyalty then – as well as where the best places to hide were, and who had the biggest stashes of cash in their homes. Neal’s talents as a pickpocket were things he taught himself, but the ability to find marks, and how to read them, was something he picked up from dogs. Dogs saw everything, and understood even more.

“But it’s good to have someone who hears me,” Bugsy went on. “Sometimes I feel like I’m talking to a freaking wall over here. “

“Aww,” Neal said, holding out a hand against which the pug gratefully nuzzled.

“Nice to see you’ve made friends,” June said upon entering the room a few moments later. She had a tray with tea things on it.

“What can I say, I’m a dog person,” Neal said with a smile as he sprang up to help her

\----

Neal could hear Peter Burke coming up the stairs – the man complained too loudly for him to miss it – and so it was with a great deal of delight that he lifted the copy of the morning paper in front of his face. It was always preferable to make an entrance, that’s what Mozzie always taught him. But he was already in the room, so the paper hiding his face would have to do.

He could hear the clomping of a pair of terribly practical Oxfords on the floorboards, and lowered the paper. “You’re early,” he said to Burke, beaming.

Burke had the grace to ignore their surroundings, at least for the moment. “We’re chasing a lead at the airport – got a hit on Snow White.”

Neal set the paper down, suddenly more interested in the case he’d read up on the night before than being a smug bastard (but only just). “Snow White – the phrase you decoded from a suspected Dutchman communiqué to Barcelona.” 

“You moved?”

Neal couldn’t help but let a shit-eating grin slip through. “Yeah, it’s nicer than the other place, don’t you think?”

“Don’t remember the other place having a view,” Burke looked out over the balustrade – the Chrysler was looking particularly sparkly in the bright autumn sunlight.

“I went to the thrift store, like you suggested and June-“

“The lady with the dog?”

“Nice dog, yes. She was donating her late husband’s clothes. We hit it off, she had an extra guest room…”

Burke cleared his throat. 

“You said if I could find a nicer place for the same price, I should take it,” Neal pointed out. He thought “contrite and innocent schoolboy” was the right way to go with this, and so he widened his eyes as much as possible. 

“I did say that – all this for seven hundred?”

“Yep. But I have to help out around the place.”

“Oh sure, like feed the dog…”

“Wash the Jag,” Neal added helpfully, watching Burke’s face darken, “watch the granddaughter from time to time.”

“She’s got you babysitting?”

Neal couldn’t help a smirk – he’d met June’s granddaughter Cindy at dinner the night before, and she was lovely if a bit young for him. That didn't mean he wasn’t going to twist the knife of jealousy he’d just slipped between Burke’s ribs just a little, because Cindy chose just that moment to come breezing out onto the terrace from her own suite of rooms at the other end. She was, of course, stunning, and had not taken the time to change out of her night things. Neal could tell Burke assumed they’d slept together and Neal was in no hurry to disavow him of that idea, because the look on the man’s face as he saw Cindy was literally priceless.

“Morning, Neal,” she said helpfully and Neal wished he could laugh out loud.

“How’s it going?” Burke greeted her. “Granddaughter, huh?”

“She’s an art student,” Neal said as she took a seat on a nearby chaise.

Burke shook his head. “Unbelievable. Go get dressed.” 

Neal would have rubbed it in just a little bit more, but he knew how to quit when he was ahead.

\----

Despite his better judgment, Neal was finding this Dutchman case to be damned interesting. The man, whoever he was, really was as elusive as the fabled ghost ship, with some innate talent for avoiding the Feds even before they caught wind of his schemes. Art theft, bank heists, antiquities smuggling – the guy didn't seem to have any one specialty other than an attraction to high value scores. Neal would pause to admire him if he wasn’t gearing up to help the FBI catch him. He felt bad about it for a New York minute, but tamped that down immediately – he had to keep his eyes on the prize. 

They pulled up to the international terminal at the airport, leaving the Fedsmobile idling in the white zone without looking back. Neal followed as Burke was hand-waved through security – Neal along with him – and they soon came upon one of Peter’s Fedlings.

“Who’s that?” Neal asked, curious, as the young woman approached.

“That’s Diana, she’s my probie.”

“Probie?”

“Probationary agent. She does everything I don’t, she’s very good at her job, and she can do way better’n you.”

Neal shrugged – neither of them had been able to catch this Dutchman dude, so…

“You must be Neal Caffrey. Nice hat,” Diana said. She was beautiful, if not Neal’s type, with a trim figure and large, expressive eyes that nevertheless missed nothing. Neal knew she had his number in under a second, and under normal circumstances, he would not have bothered, but he’d woken up on the pain-in-the-ass side of the bed today, and was determined to make all FBI agents suffer. 

Neal gave Diana his biggest grin and she rolled her eyes. He cheered internally. 

“What’ve we got?” Burke asked her.

Neal followed them through to a private room in customs where a group of old school, hard-sided suitcases lay on a table nearby. Inside each was several copies of the same children’s book.

“ _Blancanieves y Los Siete Enanos_ ,” Burke read in horrendous Spanish.

“Snow White and her Seven Little Men,” Neal translated for him.

“This is what triggered our alert? What do we know about this guy?”

“Says he’s a rare book dealer,” Diana replied. 

It seemed the man, Tony Field, had brought in hundreds of copies of the book on this and two prior occasions. Neal’s suspicions were immediately tweaked, so he gave the book a second look. It appeared completely innocuous –some mass printing of a children’s story produced for school use and, given its origins, he was sure there was a decided fascist bent to the narrative. 

“Are we wasting our time, Dino?”

Neal gave Burke a rude look and briefly toyed with the idea of flipping him off – that “cartoon character” crack earlier at June’s had really chapped his ass. He kept it to himself. “They’re not limited runs or special editions. Can’t be worth much,” Neal pointed out.

“So why go through all the trouble of flying them in?”

“Good question.” Neal had no idea. Yet. He went back to studying the book he held.

“He sure is nervous for having all the right paper work,” Diana pointed out.

“I want to talk to him,” Peter said, his interest clearly piqued.

Diana nodded and turned to leave. “I'll set it up. Hey boss, I'm grabbing some coffee. You want some?”

“Yeah, anything but decaf.”

“I'll take mine straight,” Neal said with a cocky grin.

“Coffee shop's outside,” Diana retorted, pointing, before she left. Neal was going to like working with her, he mused with a smile.

Burke was staring at him, shaking his head. “You are way out of your league.”

“Oh, harmless flirting. It's like a dance.” 

“No, there is no dance. You're not even on her dance card. No dancing for you.”

“Um, she digs the hat.”

“Um, she'd rather be wearing that hat,” Burke replied, deadpan. Then it dawned on Neal – was that Burke’s ham-handed way of using a degrading stereotype to inform Neal that Diana was a lesbian? 

Burke went off to question Fields, and Neal followed somewhat more slowly, eventually finding himself in the same corridor where they’d been waved through security. He noticed Diana was chatting up a blonde woman at the opposite end, but his attention was really grabbed by another set of customs agents he saw standing outside the floor-to-ceiling windows that made up the wall. One of them had a black Labrador retriever on a lead, clearly a working animal, and the sight of him gave Neal a pang. 

 

_”What’s your name?”_

_“I don’t have a name,” she’d said simply, pulling her paw away with a pained whistle through her nose._

_“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to hurt you,” Neal said, taking the paw up again so he could try to stop the bleeding. The laceration along the young Lab’s pads was not deep, but it would easily get infected; the pup would need a vet to look at it at some point. He pressed the gauze to it more gently this time. “What did your dam call you?”_

_“Little one,” she said in a quiet voice. “She called us all that. Names are to be given by one’s master, or to be earned.” She bent her head and began to lick at his hand, more to get him to stop, he knew, then because of some show of submission. He placed his other hand on her head to calm her until she gave up trying to pull her paw away._

_“Such a noble pup should have a name,” Neal told her sadly._

_“You could give me one. Maybe.”_

_“Maybe.”_

 

“No dance for you,” Burke said at his shoulder, causing Neal to start. 

He realized Burke must have thought he was staring at Diana, who was now joking with the Customs agent, who was blushing quite attractively. “Not for me,” he agreed, clearing his throat. “I thought the FBI had a policy.”

“That’s the military. We don’t ask, we don’t care.”

Having spotted Burke, Diana came walking over. “Neal was right – the books aren't worth much. You can pick them up for a few dollars on EBay.”

Peter looked over to the Customs Inspector, a tall non-descript lump of a man in a blue windbreaker. Burke looked annoyed. “Hey, why didn't you tell me that guy lawyered up? The second he makes that call, I can't talk to him.”

Neal and Diana eyed each other, surprised – apparently they’d missed something when Peter had gone in to question the suspect.

The Inspector looked confused. “He didn't call anybody.”

“Then how did his lawyer know that he-“ Burke’s eyes went wide and he ran back to the holding area he’d just emerged from, the Inspector, Diana, and Neal bringing up the rear. 

“I need paramedics in here now!” the Inspector said, running back towards the door as Neal and Diana cleared it. Neal walked further into the room to see a man slumped over one of the tables lined up against the wall. He couldn’t see what was wrong with him at that distance, but from the awkward angle his head was lying in, and the expression on Burke’s face, he concluded the man was dead. He was suddenly glad he hadn’t talked Diana into getting him that coffee. He rushed from the room, nauseous.

\----

“We’ve got a dead book dealer, a killer lawyer and a bunch of worthless books,” Burke said, all urgent intensity. “All right, come on, as a reformed professional counterfeiter, what is the Dutchman's interest in these?”

Neal bowed over the table in the inspection room again, peering at one of the books and muttering to himself. “Published 1944 in Madrid...” He ran his fingertips over the thick, creamy paper. They sure used quality stock for a piece of shit kid’s book, he thought, and then it clicked. “This is what he's after.” 

He slid the thin, metallic ruler he held under the top sheet of the book, separating it from the cover. The glue was old and the paper came free almost without effort. 

“Top sheet?”

“More than that. This is a piece of 1944 Spanish press parchment.”

“That's what he wanted. Good. This is good.”

“He's going to counterfeit something that was originally printed on paper like that?” Diana asked.

“It's what I would do.”

“Tony made three prior shipments with these,” Burke said.

“Two blank pages per book is 600 sheets.”

“Too many for paintings, not enough for currency. I bet our dead book dealer knew. Diana, where's that wallet?”

She handed it over. “It's right here.”

Burke leafed through the receipts and assorted crap in the wallet until he came up with a small stub. “This is where he went, the day before he left for Spain.”

Neal looked down at an admission stub from The National Archives. “Guess we’re headed downtown.”

\----

“OK, Tony makes two trips. First time he takes a picture of the bond. The second time he steals the original and replaces it with this copy. Can we confirm that?”

Neal sat at one end of a conference room in the White Collar division’s offices in the Federal Building downtown, the darkened city bustling behind him as people headed to their homes or out for their evening plans. It was well past quitting time, and he was interested to see that Burke and his team didn’t seem to let that stop them in their pursuit of their latest lead. He simultaneously admired their work ethic, thrilled at this glimpse into the inner workings of a Federal investigation, and quailed at the thought that all of this brain power had been focused on him back in the day. 

He sat reclining in one of the plush chairs, feet on the table and idly tossing a rubber band ball he’d found somewhere up into the air. He was still feeling pretty proud of himself for having figured out what the Dutchman was up to; he’d known the bond was a fake from the moment he saw it – or more accurately, smelled it. He did feel rather bad for the poor curator, who’d been so proud of the thing. It _was_ a work of art, there was no doubt about it – it just depended on your perspective. 

“The timed ink identification test puts the age of the bond at approximately six days,” said Agent Jones, a young African American agent with an ill-advised goatee and a by-the-book manner. “Which coincides with Tony's visit.”

“We're pulling surveillance video to back it up,” Diana added.

“Good,” Burke said. He was pacing back and forth in front of the windows of the conference room like the proverbial caged animal. Neal kept his own posture and manner as light as possible, a counterpoint. “So, the question is why go through the trouble of making a really nice forgery, on the right kind of paper, just to stick it back in the archives?”

“Is the bond still negotiable?” Neal wondered.

“It's a zero option, so it never expires. What's it worth?”

“Thousand dollars face value, drawing nine percent interest…” Jones said.

“Compounded for sixty-four years…” Diana added. She and Jones reached for a nearby calculator; he won.

“248 thousand dollars,” Neal supplied without thinking.

“What he said,” Jones pointed at Neal, having reached the same result with the calculator.

“Quarter of a million, not chump change,” Burke mused. “And he's got 600 sheets of the stuff.”

Diana, Peter and Jones looked over at Neal, expectant.

“150 million, give or take,” Neal supplied after a moment, and Diana grinned back at Jones. Keeping her amused was unnaturally fulfilling to Neal.

“He'd be a rich man if he could pass them off, but that still doesn't tell us why he would take out the real bond and put in a forgery.”

Neal tossed the rubber band ball up in the air again, caught it, and repeated; suddenly, he had an insight. “I think it does. What if he claimed he found boxes of the original bonds?”

“Dragged them out of the caves in Spain?”

“Yeah, how would they be authenticated?” It would have raised no questions at all whenever the counterfeit bonds came to light – no doubt at a much later date to allow for the inks in the forgery to dry. The whole scheme was ballsy in the extreme – Neal wished he’d thought of it himself, though he’d certainly have stopped short of murdering to cover up his plan.

Burke snapped his fingers as the pieces fell into place for him as well. “They'd be taken to the archives and compared to the original.”

“Which he's already switched out with one of his own copies.”

“So of course they'd match. Oh, this is good.” He stalked forward and caught the rubber band ball just as Neal tossed it in the air again. “This is really good. All right let's think about this…”

One of the cell phones on the table rang and Diana reached across to pick it up. “It’s Elizabeth,” she said, tossing it to Burke. He winced, then made herding gestures to chase everyone from the room. Neal overheard him for a few seconds, his voice automatically lowering an octave as he purred into the phone – clearly Mrs. Burke was a formidable woman, and he couldn’t wait to meet her.

\----

“Big plans for the weekend?” Neal sat in the passenger side of Burke’s Ford Fedtastico watching traffic pass. A cold rain had begun to fall and he was glad not to have to try to find a cab this time of the evening. 

“Oh, you know, I gotta fix the sink, catch the game.”

“With Elizabeth?”

He smiled almost proudly. “Yeah, yeah, she's into it. How cool is that? She likes to watch the Giants.”

Neal stared at him, mouth open. No man could be this self-destructive (not even him). “Uh-huh. Even on your anniversary?” 

Burke hit the brakes so hard the tires squealed as the car skidded to a stop. The car behind them honked and passed them in a huff.

“God, I see this stuff coming from six months out and then I take it right in the teeth, every time,” Burke whined.

“Relax, man you still have a few days.”

“No, this is what happened last year. I said I'd make up for it with something special, not just a corner booth at Donatella's! And a romp in the sheets.” He bashed his fists on the steering wheel, clearly upset with himself.

“So skip the dinner.”

“We've been married a decade, that doesn't cut it anymore.”

No, it wouldn’t. Neal took pity on the man. “OK, Romeo. Let's problem solve. What's she into?”

“Sexually?”

Neal screwed up his face. “Ew, no. Existentially. What makes her feel alive?”

“I'm drawing a blank.”

Neal was incredulous. “How could you not know? When you were chasing me you knew my shoe size, what time I woke up in the morning-“

“That's the job. It's very different.”

Neal didn’t believe he was having this conversation with Peter Burke; he was almost disappointed. “So a relationship isn't work?”

“Oh, no, no. You don't get to lecture me on relationships. My wife didn't flee the country to get away from _me_.”

Neal closed his mouth with an audible click, a cold lump forming in his stomach. He could feel his face losing all color, and rather than say something out of anger, he just turned back to the window and watched the traffic. Burke started driving again. 

“That was harsh. I didn't… I didn't mean that,” he began to say.

“Yeah, you did,” Neal said, not looking at him. Burke made an uncomfortable sound and Neal looked over across the front seat at him. “Did she really flee the country?” 

Neal didn’t like the sound of that at all. If Kate left the United States, she couldn’t really take Farah with her. And if she had no intention of taking Farah, then who had she left herwith? _Where was his goddamn dog?_ He felt like he might hyperventilate. “France? Did she go to France?” 

“I really don't know, I’m sorry.”

Neal just stared at him. 

“What am I gonna do?” Burke had the nerve to ask him, still more interested in his marital woes than the panic attack he’d just dropped in Neal's lap.

“Oh no. No more relationship from this side of the car. You can call Dr. Phil,” Neal snapped.

\----

Neal locked June’s front door and turned wearily to mount the three flights of stairs up to his new apartment. He’d been starving earlier, but the conversation with Burke had made him cross enough to lose his appetite completely. He set his hat on the banister and laid his foot on the first step.

He couldn’t say what, but some noise in a nearby room caught his attention – something low, like a grunt. Alarmed, he grabbed a walking stick out of an umbrella stand and headed for the darkened parlor. There was a shadow in the corner, movement. He raised the stick and switched on the light.

“I saw the best dogs of my generation destroyed by complacency. Pampered powdered Prozacked.”

The familiar white face of the French bulldog was no less welcome, even if he’d clearly just been licking his testicles. Neal lowered the stick and relaxed.

“What the hell, Mozzie – sitting in the dark, misquoting Ginsberg? Nice alliteration, though.”

“The light's how they find you, man.” Moz straightened up and shook himself all over, then trotted over to Neal and sat, back legs akimbo, squinting up at him.

“You know, I’ve lived here less than 48 hours, you can’t just help yourself. How'd you get in anyways?”

“I used these.” He curled his lips back to show his teeth, only the way his face was constructed made it look more like a grimace. “There’s a dog door out back – Bugsy’s a nice guy. You get a load of that granddaughter?”

Neal smiled – Moz was always trying to set him up with women who were not Kate. “Thanks for coming, man.”

Mozzie sneezed noisily and then licked his chops. “What was I going to do? Not come?” He nosed at Neal's pant leg. “Can I see?” 

Neal lifted it for easier access and Moz sniffed at it thoroughly. 

“Can we pick it?” 

“No way. You flew too close to the sun my friend, they burned your wings.”

“Where's Kate, Moz? Do you know? She’s got Farah.”

Moz shook his head. “I asked around soon as I heard you were out. She's a ghost, man. She did an outstanding job of melting away. Left no scent.”

“Keep looking? There’s something she wants, I can just tell. She’s keeping Farah close for a reason – she knows I’ll do anything, _anything_ – “

“Calm down, man, I get it.”

Neal ran a hand over his face and took a deep breath; this was the first time he’d allowed himself to truly freak out over Farah since the day Kate had last visited him in prison to tell him she was taking his dog away with her. 

“Sorry. Sorry. Keep looking, OK?”

Moz sneezed again, then nodded. 

Neal pulled something out of his inner pocket, crouched down to the floor and laid it down for Moz to examine. “I’ve got something else. I need you to help me figure out who created this.”

Moz examined the counterfeit Spanish Victory bond closely, his wet nose almost but not quite touching it. Finally, he licked the corner of the paper thoughtfully. “It's superb – even the paper is authentic.” He sat back on his haunches. “You know the worst thing about art forgery? You can't take credit for your work.”

\----

In the morning, Neal rose and showered too early – Mozzie had returned in the small hours with the information he needed, and he’d slept poorly the rest of the night, too excited by knowing the identity of the Dutchman to get much rest. It was chilly and he had only really fit into the one suit of Byron’s – June had thoughtfully already sent the others out to be tailored – so he dressed in a black turtleneck he’d picked up at the thrift ship and the pair of slacks he’d worn out of prison. 

The Burke home was in a fashionable part of Brooklyn, and must have set them back a pretty penny. Neal strode up the front steps and rang the doorbell with confidence, plastering his most charming smile on his face.

“Yes?” a petite woman said as she opened the door and looked up at him expectantly. She was, simply put, beautiful, with bright blue eyes and long, dark hair, and she reminded Neal of every single girl he’d ever had a thing for in his entire life. Yes, he had a type, and here was its embodiment standing before him – and she was married to Peter Burke.

“E-Elizabeth?” he said, not hiding his surprise very well.

“Yes…?” she said, eyes flashing with a mixture of surprise and alarm that he immediately regretted being the cause of.

“I’m sorry, I’m Neal. Caffrey.”

Her face lit up with recognition and she smiled, the dimples in her cheeks _doing things_ for him they ought not to. “Oh, _Neal_!” she squealed. “What a nice surprise. Wow, I didn’t expect to ever meet you. Here. At my house.”

He waved his hand. “Oh, you know, I had something to bring up with Peter and I was in the neighborhood…”

“Really?”

“No,” he said, smiling as disarmingly as he knew how, and it seemed to be working. “But it was too good to wait, so I thought I’d try to head Peter off before he left for the office. Is he home?”

“He is – he’s getting dressed. Why don’t you come in?”

She held the door open for him at last and showed him to the living room, gesturing to the couch. Before he could have a seat, his legs were practically knocked out from under him by a yellow flurry of Labrador retriever.

“Hi, hi, hi, hi, hiiiiiii!” the dog said enthusiastically, shoving his nose into Neal's crotch without preamble.

“Oh, hey there, boy,” Neal said, returning the dog’s enthusiasm. “Such a nice greeting.”

“Satchmo, no!” Elizabeth looked embarrassed and pulled the dog away by his collar. 

“Hi, hi hiiiiiii!” Satchmo choked out a little desperately past the constriction at his throat. Neal sat down and Elizabeth let go of the dog’s collar, ordering him to take his spot on the nearby doggy bed, where he thumped his tail enthusiastically and grinned at Neal.

“Can I get you some coffee?” she asked.

“That would be great.”

While she was gone, Neal went and knelt down in front of Satchmo, scratching him behind the ears. 

“You work for Peter?”

“For now,” Neal answered in a whisper. “But if I’m lucky, he’ll make it more permanent.”

Satchmo closed his eyes and lowered his head, grunting in pleasure as Neal rubbed at his ears. “He’s a good man,” Satchmo whispered into his bed.

“Is he a good master to you?”

“He is patient and kind. There are many walks.”

Neal cocked his head to the side, considering the dog’s words. “That’s good to hear,” he decided. 

“Here we are!” Elizabeth said in a sing-song voice as she carried a tray laden with two coffee mugs and the appropriate fixings. “I wasn’t sure how you took it, so I brought everything.”

Neal rose despite Satchmo’s gentle protest of a paw on his forearm and returned to the couch. “Thanks.” He poured a bit of milk into his cup and took an appreciative swig – he hadn’t taken the time to grab a cup back at June’s.

“Wasn’t Peter going to pick you up this morning?” Elizabeth said then, still clearly wondering why a convicted criminal was seated on her Ethan Allen.

“I’m sure he was, but I was really just eager to get started today. I – I found something interesting in the forged bond we’re working on for this case…” He pulled it out of his pocket. “I’m sorry – does Peter even discuss these things with you?”

“Only the interesting ones, and this one sure sounds like a doozy. Can I see it?” She scooted closer to him on the couch, an avid expression on her face, and Neal flattened it out on the coffee table. “Goya, right?” she said, running a finger over the print. “I wish I had my loupe, but I lost it when we moved,” she said distractedly. She picked up the paper and looked at it through the morning sunlight streaming through the windows behind them. “Even the watermark looks real,” she said.

“It is,” Neal answered, impressed she’d know these kinds of details, and he told her.

She laughed. “Once upon a time, I worked in an art gallery – we’d get all kinds of works, not just paintings and sculptures. It’s how I met Peter, actually.”

“You don’t say?” Neal said, sipping his coffee, and she immediately told him the story how the gallery had been robbed and she had been interviewed as a witness by Peter. The story was interesting to Neal in that it filled in some necessary details about Peter Burke’s personality, but he also marveled at how easily everyday people shared aspects of their lives with total strangers. He knew he was a talented social engineer, but some days he didn't have to try.

Luckily he was now using his powers for good. For the foreseeable anyway. 

There was a clatter on the second floor and suddenly, Peter was calling out to his wife as he hurried down the stairs. “El, I've got to go, Neal's outside his radius!”

Neal and Elizabeth simultaneously looked up at him from the couch. Burke’s face calmed and he spoke into his mobile, “Caffrey is with me…. Yeah, yeah.” He hung up.

“Good morning, Honey,” Elizabeth said with a pleasant smile.

“Peter,” Neal greeted. He knew his showing up here might cause a minor uproar, but he thought what he’d figured out last night would take away the sting.

“You're on my couch.”

“Yeah, I came to talk to you, and, uh, frankly Peter, I have to say I'm surprised you have such an amazing wife.”

“Yeah, I like her. Get off my couch.”

“Honey, we're just chatting,” Elizabeth informed her husband, and Neal filed that tidbit away – was Peter the jealous type?

“Chatting. How did you get here?”

“Took a cab.”

“You activated your tracker. You're in my house, on my couch, with my wife.”

As if on cue, Satchmo came back over to Neal, apparently interested in more ear skritches. Neal was only too happy to oblige – the dog had a sweet disposition. “Oh, hey Satchmo.”

“And you're petting my dog,” Peter added.

“Peter, did you really put Elizabeth under surveillance before you asked her out?” Neal said, knowing the best way to get out of a sticky situation was to push your opponent into a stickier one. “I underestimated you.”

“You told him,” Peter said to his wife.

She waved a hand. “Oh, he said he wanted to make sure I wasn't seeing anybody else. Honey, I think it's cute!”

“I think it's adorable,” Neal added, personally loving watching Burke squirm as an important part of his personality – one he clearly never wanted to share with Neal – was shared. Neal was tickled – Peter Burke clearly had no qualms about occasionally coloring outside the lines. Very interesting.

“I'm putting you back in prison,” he said dryly, activating his phone and dialing a number.

“I know who the Dutchman is,” Neal said, letting one of the metaphorical shoes he held drop.

Peter canceled the call. “Enlighten me.”

“Curtis Hagen.” Burke showed no sign of knowing who that was, and Neal couldn’t help but feel a stab of disappointment. “He's an art restorer. One of the best in the world, but his own work never took off. He's particularly good at Goya restorations. That's what this is, Peter. The bond is him showing off.”

Peter looked intrigued. “Interesting theory. How do we prove it?”

Neal lobbed that other shoe to the floor. “He signed it.”

“I think we might've noticed a signature tucked in the corner.”

Neal rolled his eyes and handed the bond to him. “Look at the pants on the Spanish peasant. What do you see? It's the initials C and H.”

Peter squinted at it. “I don't know, that's a stretch.”

“This bond is a masterpiece. If I'd done something this good, I would've signed it. Hey, the forgeries you caught me on, I signed them.”

“What? Where?”

“Look at the bank seal under polarized light sometime,” Neal said. He knew he was potentially giving too much away, but it wasn’t as if they could prosecute him again, so he thought he was safe to admit it. “Hagen is doing a church restoration on Third Street; we can stop by on our way in.”

Peter at last looked convinced. “Fine. Meet me in the car,” he said, shooing Neal out of the house. Before he left, Neal thought he saw the lovely Mrs. Burke smile indulgently at him – another ally couldn’t hurt in this.

\----

Neal walked up to the church where Hagen was apparently working, which was closed during the restoration, according to a sign on the door. Having circled the block twice in search of a parking space, Neal had finally whined loud enough to make Peter drop him off up the block. He made Neal promise not to go inside without him – not that Neal gave a crap either way – so he cooled his heels on a bench beside a bit of garden adjacent to the church and wondered if he could get a quick nap in.

A sad whimper behind him got his attention and he turned in his seat to see a small, scruffy dog that had been tied to a birch tree. She had managed to get her leash tangled around it, trapping her with her head at an awkward angle, pressed into the tree’s bark. She was smallish, with golden fluffy hair that curled slightly. Neal thought she might be part spaniel, perhaps part terrier as well.

“Oh me. Oh my. Oh me oh my,” she was whispering softly to herself.

Neal rose and went over. “What’s happened?” 

She blinked up at him with large, watery eyes, surprised to truly understand him, as most dogs were when he addressed them. Neal spread his hands wide so he wouldn’t appear threatening.

“I’m stuck,” she said simply.

“May I help you?”

She inclined her head. “Please.” 

Neal knelt down and undid her leash from the collar, unwound the leash from the tree and reattached it. “I’d leave it off, but your mistress will want to be sure to find you again.”

“My mistress is gone, I was taken away.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. May I ask what happened?”

“I do not know – the ways of humans are confusing. There was an argument, and much weeping, and in the end she left him but left me behind. Or I was kept. I’m not entirely sure. He bought me for her, and he said I belonged to him then.”

Neal felt a pang in his heart – he’d heard a lot of stories like this one in his life, where people considered their dogs little more than a possession. “But you belong to someone, though,” he pointed out. Having a master or mistress, being able to serve in some capacity, even if it was as a pet, was the highest honor among dogs.

“He is not a good man,” the dog said resignedly, and Neal nodded, accepting it. 

“He is not good to you, or to others?”

“Both. He leaves me tied to a tree when he works, not at home where it is peaceful. I get nervous and then I get tangled around the tree.” She sat down and shook her head. “Every day I say it won’t happen, and then it does. I can’t help it.”

“I understand very well. Being imprisoned can drive you crazy. What is your name?” 

“I am called Goldie now, a name lacking all imagination, but there you have it. He will not call me by the name my mistress gave me, out of spite.”

“What is that?”

“Alice.”

“It is a good name. I am Neal.”

“Hello, Neal,” she said and placed her paw on his knee briefly, in the manner of dogs.

“Can I ask who your master is?”

“He is called ‘Hagen.’”

“Really? I am looking for a man by that name.”

“You should stay away – he is very bad.”

“I know it – the FBI is after him, and I’m helping them.”

“Oh. Good, then. He is not here at the moment, but he will be back soon.”

“You gonna fool around with that mutt, or are we gonna try to talk to this Hagen character?” said a jaded voice behind him. Neal looked around to see Peter standing on the sidewalk, checking his watch. 

“Can’t I do both?” Neal asked, but he got to his feet and brushed the mulch and leaves off his pants. “I have to go,” he said to Alice in a low voice, “but… here.” He pulled a dog treat he’d swiped from June’s kitchen and placed it between her paws. “Thanks for talking to me.”

She looked up at him, pink tongue licking her lips, and gave a little nod. Neal turned around and walked over to Peter. “What?” he asked when he noticed the look on Peter’s face.

“Nothing.” Burke shook his head.

“What?” Neal repeated, but Burke just walked into the church.

\----

“Extraordinary.”

Neal and Peter were able to enter the church unmolested. It was a mid-sized Roman Catholic parish church, probably built in the early 1910’s, Neal guessed. There were a number of men working on scaffolding, cleaning and restoring the frescoes on the ceiling and the other artworks in the church. It was a big job – the entire back of the church, from the transepts to the sacristy, was covered with scaffolding and plastic sheeting. 

Neal was standing at a small altar in the south transept that featured a number of relics enshrined behind protective glass, arranged around a central painting of the Holy Family; it wasn’t contemporary with the architecture – it was much older. He stepped over the low railing and got close, pushing back the plastic sheeting to study it, his hand brushing lightly over the surface.

“Hey, if this Hagen guy is as good as you say, how come I've never heard of him?” Burke asked, interrupting Neal’s reverie.

“You only know the guys who got caught. You know, the second best criminals.”

“What's that say about you?”

 _Smartass,_ Neal thought, annoyed. “It says there's an exception to every rule.” He turned back to the painting, having found what he was looking for. He pointed. “Look, C and H.”

Burke stepped in closer. “Where?”

Neal held up a magnifying glass to the hem of the robe Jesus wore. “Right… there. C, H.”

“Maybe.”

“What do you mean maybe? That's a C and an H.”

“Can I help you, gentleman?” said an unfamiliar, British-inflected voice, breaking up their Laurel and Hardy routine.

Neal and Peter turned to find the man himself – Curtis Hagen – standing behind them, hands on his hips. He was average height, dressed in work clothes and a tan overcoat, with a belligerent expression on his face. He pointed at Neal. “Your face, it's very familiar. Maybe I've seen it on the news, or perhaps on a most wanted web page.”

Neal was more pleased than he ought to have been to be recognized. He held out a hand. “Neal Caffrey.”

“Forgive me if I don't shake hands with an art thief.”

“I was never arrested for art theft.”

“Not arrested, but as I recall you were known as quite the Renaissance criminal. So you can understand my concern at having you in my space.” He turned his scowl at Burke. “And... you are?”

“Just a friend,” Peter deadpanned, leaning nonchalantly against the wall.

“Well, _friend_ , this church is closed.” He pointed at the exit with a thumb and Neal and Peter headed off in that direction, though not without a bit of glaring-posturing between Hagen and Burke. Neal rolled his eyes.

\----

“Hey, shut the door, I need your help with this.”

Burke had summoned Neal to his office; he gestured for him to sit and slid a file folder across the desk to Neal. 

“This information on Hagen?”

“No, Diana's on her way with that.”

Neal opened the folder and felt confusion. “This is your wife's Visa bill.”

Burke was as excited as a kid who’s gotten a 100 on his latest spelling test. “Yeah, I got it all. Her EBay bids, video rentals, library books. Thank you, Patriot Act.”

Neal found his enthusiasm less than savory. “So, you're stalking your own wife.” Peter scowled. “You figure out what she likes?”

“Yeah, it's all in the summary. Pottery making, Nancy Drew mysteries, scented candles – Oleander. Old jazz. Anything Italian except anchovies-“

“Yeah, I don't think you're going to find your answer for what to get her for your anniversary tucked into a list of her EBay bids.”

Burke deflated and Neal almost felt bad. “Then help me out here,” he whined. “You're supposed to be the romantic. I mean, you broke out of prison when your girl left you.” 

Neal tried to school his features into an expressionless mask but he feared he was failing. He was kind of at an inflection point here – should he tell Peter why he really broke out or let him continue to believe it was to get Kate back?

“What's the deal with the leash?”

“It's hand-tooled, custom-made. Moroccan goatskin, imported.”

“I know, I looked it up – cost you like $400. Inscribed with the name ‘Farah.’ That your pet name for Kate? You into the role-playing?”

Now Neal really couldn’t keep his emotions from appearing on his face. “Ew – it’s not for that. It – it belongs to my dog.”

“Farah is your dog?”

“Yes. Kate stole her and I need to get her back.”

“She took your dog?” 

“She took my dog.” 

“She took _your dog?_ ” 

“Did I stutter?” Neal’s voice cracked. “Never mind, you don’t get it Peter, you don’t get what Farah means to me. She’s family, she’s –” Neal shook his head.

Picking up on the emotion in Neal’s voice Peter seemed finally to take him seriously. “Tell me.”

Neal’s eyes met Peter’s, and he saw interest there and, if he wasn’t mistaken, compassion. Perhaps Neal had underestimated the man; for a moment, the animosity he’d felt towards him the last few days decreased. It was just a fraction, but the promise of someone who might understand made it slightly easier for him to breathe.

“When I came to New York, I was just a kid – homeless, a runaway. And, as the statute of limitations is now up, I can comfortably tell you that I pulled a lot of two-bit cons to get by.” 

Peter raised his eyebrows but said nothing, and Neal continued. 

“One time, I set my sights on the wrong mark. A real big shot – and I thought I could pick his pocket, have a fat payday. But he caught me and… well, he was mobbed up. He and his boys took me down to the docks, kicked the shit out of me. Said they’d make an example of me. He was gonna kill me, I had no doubt of it. Had a gun… right to my head.” Neal raised his hand to demonstrate, pressing his first two fingers beneath his chin. “But then… there was just… a snarl and a yell, and I got knocked down, but when I looked up, there was this… _dog_. She took them all on, all of ‘em.”

“What happened next?”

“Well, I was kind of scared shitless myself, but when it was over and I looked at her, I saw what she was – she was just a pup, maybe a year old? Skinny but tough, like she’d lived her whole life on the street. She saw what they were gonna do and she stopped it. She saved my life.”

“You risked another stint in prison to save your dog?”

“You got a problem with that?” Neal asked, feeling raw and vulnerable and, as ill-advised as it surely was, spoiling for a fight if one was in the offing.

Peter raised both hands placatingly. “No.”

“From that point on, Farah and I were inseparable.” 

And pulled cons together, Neal didn’t add. At first they did it just to get by. It wasn’t until Moz was in the picture that the jobs got more elaborate, with bigger scores, like the International Soy Museum heist – not that Neal was going to admit them to Burke. 

“When I went away, Kate said she’d look after Farah, keep her safe. And now –“ Neal shook his head.

“She cut town and you don’t know where Farah is?” Burke chewed the inside of his own lip contemplatively as he watched Neal with narrowed, appraising eyes.

Neal finally nodded. “I promised Farah that she would always be safe and protected. How about you? You make Elizabeth any promises, Peter? Or do you think all she wants is Oleander candles?”

Burke opened his mouth to speak, but there was a knock on the door as Diana entered the office. “Hey, Diana. What've you got?”

“Hagen is leaving the country. He booked a flight through a private charter company in Barcelona for the 19th,” she reported.

Peter flinched. “One week. Damn it, Neal, seeing you must've tipped him off.”

“He's going to Spain, that's something,” Neal pointed out.

“Is there any connection to our books, the bonds, or the murder?”

Diana shook her head. “Hagen's as impressive as hell. A lot of international holdings, but he keeps himself out of the muck.”

Peter glanced up at Neal and then back at Diana, suddenly intense. “You get every available agent on this. You know the good ones, steal 'em if you have to. I want to know every single thing about this guy and I don't want any excuses. Anything gets in your way…“

“Forge your signature,” she interrupted, “I always do.”

“That's what I want to hear.”

Diana smirked proudly and left the office. Peter got up as she closed the door, stood behind his chair with both hands on it. “If you're right about Hagen, we have one week to connect him to the bond. If we lose him on the 19th... Neal, if we lose him, you're back in. I can't save you.”

Neal nodded. He was going to have to do something about that, then.

\----

Neal opened the door to his apartment at June’s house and trudged wearily through the door. He tossed his hat onto the bed with a belabored groan before going to remove his coat.

“You’re late,” said a familiar voice from somewhere about ankle-height.

Neal flicked a lamp on and glanced over at Moz, lying bent in half on the floor, having just been licking at his junk. “Gimme a break – I’m a working man now.”

“So?”

Neal opted to ignore the crack, instead going over to his refrigerator to find himself a bottle of water. Also inside were some pre-made sandwiches from June’s staff; it made him smile. He pulled them out, went to the table and unwrapped two. “We were right about Hagen,” he said, breaking one of the sandwiches up into pieces for Moz.

Moz sat up and snorted. “Of course we were right.”

“And I was stupid and impulsive and he saw me. Now I have one week to link him to the bonds.”

Mozzie walked over and sniffed at the sandwich. “Dude, lactose!” he said, glaring. Neal removed the sliced cheese from the sandwich pieces and laid them down again. “One week or what?” the Frenchie asked before taking a bite.

Neal sighed. “I go back.”

“No, no, no.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Did you find anything out about Kate? Where she has Farah?”

Moz got to his feet and trotted to a corner of the room, returning with a piece of paper in his mouth. “Apparently, a tree falls in the forest, it does make a sound.”

Neal unfolded the paper to find a grainy photo of Kate – clearly taken by a security camera. A well-manicured male hand was resting on her arm, and she was looking at whoever it was, a smile on her face. The end of a leather leash hung from her slender wrist; the angle was impossible to be sure it was Farah’s, though Neal had no doubt. He felt a pang and pushed his food away. 

“Well, at least Kate’s still got her.”

“And whoever that guy is,” Moz pointed out. 

Neal pressed his lips in a thin line. “Where was this taken? When?”

“’bout a week ago – up in Boston.”

Neal nodded. There was not much he could do about it now – what he needed was to get the goods on Hagen before time ran out. “Listen, Moz, there’s one more thing you can do for me.”

“Sure, man, anything.”

“Hagen owns this adorable little bitch, keeps her tied up outside the church when he’s working.”

Moz’s ears pricked up. “Spaniel?” 

“Possibly. Can you go see her in the morning? Maybe she’s got some more information we can use.”

\----

Neal arrived at the FBI offices late the following morning to find Peter staring at some pictures on his laptop of himself and Elizabeth on a vacation somewhere. “Think I’ve figured out what to do about my anniversary,” he said with a smile, pointing at the screen.

“Think I’ve figured out how to get Hagen,” Neal said, holding up a slip of paper. Moz’s early morning meet-up with Alice had paid off big, even if it had taken Neal the rest of the morning to track down the address he needed. Dogs had perfect senses of direction but were, not unsurprisingly, illiterate, so it wasn’t as if she could share the street address of Hagen’s base of operations.

“You first,” Peter said avidly, closing the computer.

“There's this warehouse, down by the docks. Hagen runs it through a shell corporation out of Guatemala.” He handed Peter the piece of paper.

“We didn't know about this, how did you?”

“I don't think you rely on hearsay and rumor as much as I do.”

Within the hour, they were skulking about around a warehouse by the waterfront in Brooklyn. Neal pressed his ear against the door. “Do ya hear that? Peter...”

“Hear what?” Peter’s attention was concentrated on making sure they weren't spotted; his eyes darted around watchfully.

“Kind of a rhythmic shht-shht. That's a press. Damn it, Peter, that is a printing press. He's printing bonds in there right now, you can hear it!”

“How long until they're done?”

“A multicolor print shop as complicated as the Goya? Test proofs, ink formulation, perfection registration, he'll be running it for days.”

Peter called in a request for recording equipment and a warrant, but there was nothing else they could do until it came through.

\----

“Hagen is our guy, I can feel it,” Peter said, pacing around the White Collar unit’s conference room. “But we still don't have enough for a warrant.”

Neal didn't get it, really. “We know the bonds are there, just open the door.”

Peter gave him the kind of look reserved for thick-headed children. “Doesn’t work that way.” He picked up a very heavy book from the credenza and slid it across the table to Neal. “You should read this book on warrant law. All I've got is sound coming out of a warehouse and no way to link him to the bond or Fields’ murder.” He leaned over, resting his weight on his clenched fists on the tabletop. “Let me talk to your source – the person who gave up the warehouse,” he said conspiratorially. 

Neal got a quick mental picture of him bringing a small, nervous dog into the FBI offices and shook his head. “No. No can do.”

“I have to know how they connected Hagen to the warehouse. C'mon, Neal, you gotta trust me.”

Neal looked at him. Against his better judgment, he actually did trust Peter. After spending the last three days with him, they’d developed a kind of rapport that Neal responded well to. And, truth be told, if Neal was going to be able to capitalize on a deal to work with the White Collar division for the rest of his sentence, he was going to have to loosen up on some of his hang-ups. 

Ignoring what would be Moz’s inevitably negative reaction, he nodded. “OK, OK, I’ll bring them to you. First thing tomorrow. But there’s one thing you’ve got to know, Peter. This… individual. Is a bit… different.”

“I like different. Different is good,” Peter replied soberly.

Neal politely ignored Diana and Jones’ snorts of laughter.

\----

By 7:30 the next morning, Neal was sitting behind the antique, Victorian-era desk inside Hagen’s office at the Brooklyn warehouse, feet up and grinning like an idiot at the man himself. His ploy to be brought inside had worked perfectly – and the activation light on his tracking anklet blinking a merry shade of red proved that definitively. If he’d read that Warrant Law text Peter had given him correctly, the FBI would be arriving very soon.

He watched, amused, as Hagen approached the locked, transparent outer wall of the trailer that served as the office. 

“He looks _really mad,_ ” said a familiar voice, surprising Neal.

“Alice? I didn't see you there when I came in.” Neal smiled down at the Spaniel mix, genuinely happy to see her. She lay on a pillow in the corner, still leashed and tied to a nearby chair so that she wouldn’t escape, but she looked calmer than when he’d met her the other day.

“Mozzie taught me some breathing exercises,” she said. 

“That’s good.” He went over and removed her leash, then scooped her up and held her in his arms, letting her lick him on his jaw until Hagen finally arrived.

“What exactly is going on here?” Hagen demanded of his men. “Why’d you bring him inside?”

“He was taking pictures.”

Another of Hagen’s men pulled a gun from somewhere and pointed it at Neal. “Open the door! You’re a dead man!”

Neal could feel Alice trembling in his arms, so he held onto her more tightly, to reassure. “There, there,” he said quietly, then leaned back against the desk. Looking up at the men arrayed outside, he grinned. “That looks like inch-thick Lexan to me.”

Hagen gestured at one of his men, who ran off. “Keys are on the way,” he growled. 

“Oh deary-dear,” Alice fretted, but Neal tut-tutted at her and she quieted. He looked around the small trailer – it was quite well-appointed; in addition to the antique desk, there was a plush Turkish rug on the floor, an elaborate humidor on the desk, and a number of paintings on the walls. Neal wondered if he’d find tiny C’s and H’s on them or not. 

“Nice,” he said to Hagen, waggling his eyebrows. “You shouldn’t've signed the bonds. I'm no stranger to vanity myself, so I understand the impulse.”

“I'm gonna kill you. I hope whatever they're giving you, it's worth it.”

Neal hoisted Alice in his arms so she’d be more comfortable. “It is.”

There was the sound of sirens outside and Hagen and his goons looked around nervously. Neal set Alice down and then pulled up his pant leg, displaying the tracker with its blinking red light to Hagen. He waggled his eyebrows again.

“You are a particular kind of bastard!” Hagen growled before turning around to run, directing his men to grab as many of the bonds as possible.

But it was too late. Within moments, the place was swarming with tactical officers, and then Peter and Diana were striding through the warehouse, lecturing all who could hear on the details of the doctrine of exigent circumstance and how it might apply to Neal’s presence there that morning. 

Neal grinned at Peter as he approached the office, leaning over to unlock the Lexan door. 

“You know, you’re really bad at this escape thing.”

“What can I say?” Neal said with a shit-eating grin. He hoisted himself up onto the desk and pushed the lid on the humidor open with his thumb. “Cigar?”

“Cuban?”

Neal shrugged. “You should arrest me.”

“You are a fleeing suspect.”

Neal glanced meaningfully over to the safe that stood open in the corner, a familiar piece of paper in clear view on one of its shelves. 

“Is that the original Victory bond?” Peter asked.

“Why yes. Yes, it is.”

“Cute dog,” Peter added, noticing Alice for the first time.

“Yeah, I think she’ll be in need of a new home soon,” Neal pointed out. 

“I think Diana was looking for a dog,” Peter mused, and sat down on the desk beside Neal. “You know, this makes me three and oh?”

“I must not be trying hard enough,” Neal quipped, grabbing a cigar for himself.

\----

Neal stood on the sidewalk outside June’s, blowing on his hands. He could hear the plinky-plinky strains of kettle drum music wafting down from the balcony above, where Peter was serenading his wife with the promise of a Caribbean getaway for their anniversary. Earlier, Peter had made Neal the offer of becoming a permanent consultant to the FBI, and Neal had enthusiastically agreed – there had even been a little badge for him.

Neal was waiting for Moz to drop by – he had promised to sneak him into a movie, just like old times – when the wind shifted and he caught a familiar scent on the breeze. Something inside his stomach clenched painfully.

“Kate,” he said, closing his eyes.

“Hello, Neal.” 

He turned around to see her standing in the middle of the sidewalk – she always did have a light step. Unsurprisingly, she did not have Farah with her. 

“Where is she?” he gritted out between clenched teeth.

“She’s safe, Neal.”

“What, no ominous ‘for now’?”

She rolled her eyes. “God, Neal, I’m not a monster. I would never hurt her.”

“You’d just use her to get to me.”

She folded her arms. “I’m not an idiot, either.” 

Neal took a step closer. “How could you do it, Kate? I thought you loved us?”

She looked away before responding. “Things change. Life changes, Neal. I’m not the same person now.”

“Clearly,” he said sadly, tears pricking at his eyelids. He took her by her upper arms, looked her in the eyes; this was a woman he loved, who he thought loved him back until a few short months ago. “I thought I could trust you.”

Her face turned hard but she said nothing.

Seeing she either didn't see the pain he was in or didn't care, he released her, stepping away. “So what’ll it take to get me my dog back?” 

“Look, it’s not that big a deal – it’s something you already have.”

He wracked his brain and could think of nothing worth all this. He shook his head. 

“The amber music box.”

Neal turned away and laughed.

\----

Thank you for your time.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for the cliffhanger, but I ran out of energy to keep going, LOL. This story will have a follow up.
> 
> Special thanks to Afiawri for her transcript of the Pilot script - I couldn't have done this quite as easily without it.
> 
> I chose Farah’s name deliberately – in Arabic, it means “Joy” and, according to the Interwebs, beings with that name have a deep inner desire for love and companionship. Pretty perfect for a dog, I think.


End file.
